


Man In Tights

by going_slightly_mads (Sanashiya)



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And cries a lot when he's drunk, And he's going to kill someone, Awkward Thorin, Collectif Noname June 2015 Drabble Challenge, Drunk Bilbo, Feel free to suggest your own, Fíli Is So Done, Halloween Costumes, Lindir drinks a lot, M/M, One chapter one pairing, So everyone's kinda drunk, Thorin Is Superman, lot of swearing, probably Dís
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-04 15:59:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4143810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanashiya/pseuds/going_slightly_mads
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So there <em>was</em> something worse than coming to a Halloween party in an exceptionally tight-fitting Superman costume – it was coming to said party and humiliate yourself in front of the person your were in love with. </p><p>In which Thorin hates the costume Dís forced him to wear, but some other (very drunk) people might find it just to their liking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Man In Tights

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone !  
> This is a silly something I wrote for a drabble challenge with friends.  
> Unbeta'd, and also my very first attempt at writing in English so, sorry for any potential mistakes. (Feel free to point them out if you want to.)  
> Hope you enjoy !

 .oOo.

 

Thorin gritted his teeth. Anybody so much as daring to laugh at his red and blue Superman costume would wake up in the hospital without knowing what hit them, he would make sure of it. With as much dignity as he could muster, he pulled on the far too close-fitting blue tights from under his red briefs, and mentally swore to kill Dís (she was the one who chose the costume, and she had sufficient blackmail material to make him wear it) as soon as they were out of this stupid party. It was already bad that people had wolf-whistled at him as he was walking the street to get to Dwalin's place, but he could handle mockery when it came from strangers – since he wasn't going to see them again anyway.

No, what he dreaded most of all, to be honest, was Dwalin's reaction when he would open the door ; he was convinced his best friend would burst with laughter, and that it would most likely end up with Thorin punching him in the face.

What he didn't expect was to see Dwalin looking almost as ridiculous as himself, in his Popeye costume, pipe hanging from his mouth and white sailor hat on his head. Even the tattoos on his muscular arms fit.

During three long seconds, the two men simply looked at each other in silence.

"Dís?" Thorin finally said.

"Yeah."

"Right."

Thorin was well aware that his sister was terrifying (only a true demon could have been able to give birth to Fíli and Kíli), and every year on Halloween, she liked to stretch even further the limits of her cruelty – as Fíli and Kíli were the living proof ; respectively dressed as Cinderella and Snow-White, they were unhappily standing in a corner with dozens of empty glasses of punch next to them (the only alcoholic beverage Dís had allowed them to drink, as they still were underage, and they were making the best of it).

Still, Thorin hadn't thought she would involve Dwalin in her mischievous schemes, but after all, it was only logical, since the two of them had started dating about four months before.

Now Thorin was hoping their couple would survive the hardship.

Lost in his thoughts, preoccupied with his ridiculous looks, he didn't notice Dwalin joining him some time later in the crowd until a delightfully cold beer was shoved in his right hand, and he looked up, surprised.

"Thought you might need it", Dwalin explained.

"And you're fucking right", Thorin said gloomily.

"You might want to drink it before I tell you what I came to tell you."

Okay, now he was starting to get worried – nothing good could be expected with a sentence like that. On the other hand, what could be worse than coming to a Halloween party in an exceptionally tight-fitting, flashy Superman costume ?

"Yeah…?" Thorin said, still wondering if he really wanted to know - but Dwalin didn't give him a choice.

"Bilbo's here."

Thorin almost choked on his beer, and ending up coughing his lungs up in a very un-Superman way. Superman never choked on his beer. Did he even _drink_ beer?

"Come again?!"

"Bilbo's here. Sorry I didn't get a chance to tell you earlier."

 _Shit shit shit._ Right – no need to wait before killing Dís, he was going to do it _right fucking now._ For fuck's sake, what was his sister thinking?! Like it wasn't enough having spent the last two years with a _massive_ (and completely inappropriate, not to mention unrequited) crush on his nephews' home teacher and not having been able to even ask the guy out for a coffee ! No, of course, Dís _had_ to meddle in. (And nothing good ever happened when she did, as their atrocious costumes were proof enough.)

"OK, I'll go hang myself, come back later", Thorin said, feeling like killing himself right now. So there _was_ something worse than coming to a Halloween party in an exceptionally tight-fitting Superman costume – it was coming to said party and humiliate yourself in front of the person your were in love with.

"Relax, mate", Dwalin said. "Just look at the bright side of things : he's been staring at you for the past half-hour. Almost feel like wiping the drool off his chin."

" _What?!"_

Unable to resist any longer, Thorin turned around, instantly spotting Bilbo in the crowd, standing on the other side of the room, eyes fixed on him.

 _Oh god._ Better for now to ignore the dreamy little smile painted on his lips as he was watching him – instead, Thorin found himself studying his grass green tunic and brown leather belt, his green and white striped tights and chestnut loafers, and his strange pointy hat with a little bell hanging at the tip.

He was an elf.

That. Was. Fucking. Adorable.

Without saying anything, he shoved back his still half-full beer in Dwalin's hand, and marched towards Bilbo, who was still smiling, cheeks a lovely shade of pink. Thorin raised an eyebrow when Bilbo winked at him.

"Hullo, mister Kent", Bilbo slurred when Thorin stopped right in front of him.

Right. Suspicions confirmed.

"Bilbo… Are you drunk?"

"Might be", Bilbo beamed. "That, that punch is… is not half bad. Nice costume, Thorin. Very… tight. I mean – nice. Very nice. Oh god."

Up until that very moment, Thorin would never have thought that the attraction he felt for Bilbo was in any way reciprocal – the small man had never seemed very interested in him to begin with, which was half the reason why he couldn't bring himself to invite him out for a drink. No one liked being rejected, after all.

Now, Thorin was starting to think he might have been very, very wrong, and more than just a little bit blind.

Also, if nothing happened tonight, Dís would most likely skin him.

"Nice? You think so?"

Ok, he knew goats better than him at the subtle art of hitting on someone : but Bilbo was so drunk it was a miracle he was still standing. It might just work.

"I do indeed. Very. Sexy. Rrrr. Makes me want to..."

"To…?"

"Oh, god, I'm drunk."

"Makes you want to what, Bilbo?"

Slowly, he put his hand on Bilbo's arm, and as if it was just what Bilbo had been waiting for all this time, he grabbed Thorin by the strings of his cape and pulled him closer.

"Makes me want to do that", Bilbo said, his breath falling on Thorin's lips, before he started devouring them passionately, and Thorin, feeling somewhat dizzy, had to put a hand on the wall next to them so he wouldn't fall, wrapping his other arm around Bilbo. God. He could get used to it, he thought. Bilbo smelled like beer and candy and shampoo, and he could really, _really_ get used to it.

"Don't let me stop you", he murmured when Bilbo let him go, and the smile he got for his trouble was almost blinding.

"Sure won't."

Right. Well, so maybe he was not going to kill Dís right away, after all.


	2. Nebuchadnezzar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fíli was desperate.
> 
> Well, not exactly ; despair was the first time he brought a F to his mother after a disastrous science exam, or when Kíli almost drowned after Fíli had _accidentally_ pushed him off the boat the first time (and also the last) they went to the sea, and Dís had been this close to skin him ; or whenever he saw Thorin embarrass himself in front of his home teacher Bilbo, which meant _often_ (he was so pathetically awkward that it almost physically hurt to watch him).
> 
>  _That_ was despair. Right now, Fíli felt _suicidal_.
> 
> In which Fíli loathes the costume Dís forced him to wear, but some other (very weird) people might find it quite interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow this thing has turned into a "give me stupid pairings and I'll see what I can do with it" challenge with my friends. I was suggested Fíli/Thranduil, it got me interested, I gave it a try !  
> I'm still not used to writing in English. I hope it's not too weird. If it is, feel free to mention it.

.oOo.

Fíli was desperate.

Well, not exactly ; despair was the first time he brought a F to his mother after a disastrous science exam, or when Kíli almost drowned after Fíli had _accidentally_ pushed him off the boat the first time (and also the last) they went to the sea, and Dís had been this close to skin him ; or whenever he saw Thorin embarrass himself in front of his home teacher Bilbo, which meant _often_ (he was so pathetically awkward that it almost physically _hurt_ to watch him).

 _That_ was despair. Right now, Fíli felt _suicidal._

«Give me one more», he groaned.

Kíli didn't even ask, and filled to the brim two glasses of punch, one for his brother and one for himself – it was the only alcoholic drink they were allowed by their mother.

Well. _Mother._ There was no fucking way Dís was their mother – more like a demon that had somehow escaped from Hell and was now pretending to be part of their family. No _mother_ would have dressed her nineteen and seventeen years old sons as _Cinderella_ and _Snow White._

Usually, Halloween was something Fíli was looking forward to. Since they were little, Dís, bossy as ever, had the habit of picking their costumes for them, and up until now, they never had any reason to complain, mostly because it was their uncle Thorin who usually ended up with the worst one. This year though, they almost _envied him_ his red and blue Superman costume, despite the fact that said costume left no ambiguity whatsoever about the fact that yes, he _was_ a male indeed.

Kíli, too blasé to talk, handed him his drink, and Fíli downed it in one go. Unfortunately, there was almost no alcohol in it, and he was seriously considering disobeying his sad excuse for a mother and making a trip to the main table, where all the fun stuff was, waiting for him. He would most likely get an almighty walloping for his trouble when Dís would notice (and she would, he knew she would), but what could be worse than spending his favourite time of the year dressed as a princess ? Thorin's costume was ridiculous, that much was true, but at least it was a _dude_ costume.

And then someone was howling with laughter just next to them, and Fíli and Kíli both shot their younger cousin Gimli an unimpressed look. The kid, who obviously didn't know how lucky he was that he had a mother who wasn't off her rocker, was dressed as a pirate, like any other _sane_ individual going to a Halloween party.

«Holy shit, I _need_ to take a picture of that!» Gimli cackled, holding out his camera phone. «Everyone will _die_ of laughter when I'm going to show them the pics at school.»

Fíli barely exchanged a glance with Kíli – the next second, he was strongly holding his cousin's arms behind his back, while his brother, who had quickly unfastened Gimli's leather belt, was now trying to unbutton his black trousers.

«Right, you do that», Kíli said with a smooth smile. « _Or,_ you might want to change your mind before I pull your trousers down. I'm sure Legolas will be quite interested with whatever's hidden inside those pants, don't you think ? As long as there _is_ something to hide, of course.»

Still holding his arms, Fíli watched with interest the intense blush that crept on Gimli's cheeks faster than a forest fire, before their cousin groaned : «OK, I got it, I _got it,_ Jesus ! Let go of me !»

Once the potential threat was neutralised and their cousin had disappeared in the crowd (with no picture), Kíli turned to Fíli, a rather sinister look on his face.

«The cheek of that brat! Listen, Fíli, we managed this time around, but we can't go around blackmailing every single person in this room. We can't stop pictures from leaking.»

«We did everything we could for now», Fíli shrugged. «God, I'm too sober for this shit.»

«Mum said no!»

« _Mum_ can go to hell for all I care», Fíli gritted his teeth. «I wouldn't have to do that if it weren't for her. Fuck mum. I'm drinking.»

After all, there was only so much one college boy dressed as a princess could endure. Everything was _her_ fault – plus it seemed she wasn't even in the room, so. To hell with her – to hell with _everything._

Very much feeling like killing something (or someone), holding his dress so he would not step on it, Fíli crossed the dance floor – where his uncle and Bilbo were obviously trying something new, that had less to do with dancing and more with nibbling at one's lips and groping the other one's bum ( _about fucking time,_ Fíli thought bitterly) – before he finally stopped in front of the drink table. _Finally._

The table had a lot to offer, but at this stage, anything would do, really – as the pain of his high heels constantly reminded him – and his eyes fell on a enormous bottle of champagne, so big he wasn't even sure he would be able to hold it.

Perfect for him.

«That is called a Nebuchadnezzar», a deep voice said behind him. «It contains fifteen litres.»

Already stretching his hand to the bottle, Fíli instantly turned around (to the great displeasure of his sore feet), only to discover a… prince, obviously, with long, painfully blond hair, upon which was a strange wooden crown garnished with red leaves ; the man was clad with soft, splendid clothes, a mix of blue and silver – extremely regal.

Granted, he wasn't too young, obviously in his late thirties, but that didn't stop him from looking breathtakingly hot, his features soft and his eyes a light blue so incredible that Fíli almost felt dizzy just looking at them ( _or,_ he was starting to get quite drunk, which was also very likely).

 _Oh my god,_ Fíli suddenly thought. _He mistook me for a girl. He's chatting me up !_

Great. Fucking fantastic.

«I'm a bloke,» he groaned, with the deepest voice he was able to muster.

Against all odds, Old Hot Stranger chuckled –and _no,_ Fíli thought, it wasn't sexy. It wasn't sexy _at all_.

«I know. I think the moustache gave it away.»

«Oh.»

Right, he had refused to shave – Dís had been ranting forever about how it wouldn't match his costume, and Fíli had sat through it : like hell she was forcing him to shave the goatee he was so proud of. So yeah, it didn't really go well with his lovely blue dress and puffed sleeves, but better a bearded princess than a naked chin. (Was she even _aware_ of how _long_ it took to grow it? Women, really.)

«If you don't mind…»

Pretty Blue Eyes took hold of the huge bottle on the table like it didn't weigh more than your average bottle (which indicated that he was either stronger than he looked, or that he had quite a bit of experience with it), and poured Fíli a flute of the champagne it contained.

«Here», he smiled.

«Who are you?» Fíli asked curiously, while taking the drink that was offered to him. Not that he didn't like calling him Old Hot Stranger or Pretty Blue Eyes, but better that the nicknames stayed buried deep inside his mind, along with their friends Sexy Bastard and Silky Blond God.

«Oh dear, I haven't even introduced myself, how rude. My name is Thranduil Greenleaf.»

«Thranduil Greenleaf…?»

Weird. The name rang a bell.

«Oh my _god._ You're Legolas' dad.»

 _Legolas_ – the bloke his cousin Gimli had been having a crush on for _years_. Legolas, who was barely younger than Kíli, maybe fifteen or sixteen years old ; and his _father_ was _hitting on him_.

 _Definitely too sober for this shit,_ Fíli thought before downing the glass of champagne without much ado, and handing it back to Thranduil so the other could fill it up again. He was almost expecting the usual _no more, you're still underage_ and shit lecture, but it seemed that Thranduil was cooler that most people his age (much cooler than his mum, at any rate) – he took the glass without a word, filled it again, and gave it back to Fíli, who emptied it as fast as he had the first one.

Before that, he had drunk about ten glasses of punch (or maybe twenty, to be truthful), which was probably why his thoughts were slowly drifting in a sweet stupor, but it wasn't enough to make him forget that he was being chatted up by a friend's – well, _almost_ friend… that wasn't really what mattered anyway – _father_.

«What do you want?»

Thranduil shrugged before filling a glass of champagne for himself.

«Is it forbidden to seek a drinking companion?»

«Of course not,» Fíli smiled politely, «but when said companion is dressed as a princess and young enough to be your _son,_ things tend to get a bit weird. Just saying.»

Thranduil smiled, and Fíli suddenly felt like there was a cat stuck inside his throat. Shit – in his late thirties, right, but still damn hot. Cautiously, Fíli took a look around him, in case this awkward conversation was being witnessed by undesirable eyes.

Everything all right so far. And Thranduil was sill smiling. «We are only drinking.»

 _Right_ , Fíli thought. _And I am Cinderella._ He almost laughed aloud at his silent joke, and Thranduil, not missing a thing, raised a (regal) eyebrow in surprise.

«Right», Fíli said finally, unable to fight his grin. «So, who are you dressed as, then ? Lucius Malfoy ?»

For a second, Thranduil looked like he had swallowed an entire lemon, and Fíli's grin grew larger – it was fun trying to find his weaknesses. The man certainly seemed too perfect for his own good, and Fíli, for his part, was a bit too drunk to care about offending him. Fuck, he looked like one of those actors and whatnot, with his impeccable hair and gorgeous clothes and carefully controlled facial expression.

«I am an Elvenking», Thranduil said with the most majestic tone he could muster.

«You don't say. Well, I have to admit it kind of suits you.»

Once you were used to the idea that a man twice your age was shamelessly hitting on you, it was quite easy to let yourself go, finally, Fíli thought with some surprise.

Blame the Pretty Blue Eyes.

«Thank you», Thranduil smirked. «Allow me to return the compliment. You make a very beautiful princess.»

«King, princess… I guess we _do_ have some things in common, don't we?»

Oh god, now wait – who was hitting on who ? _That,_ on the other hand, was certainly _not_ going to do. Not at all. Not to mention Thranduil was now staring at him with a gaze so piercing it felt like he was able to read him like a book, down to the very bottom of his soul, and Fíli felt tiny and naked and he didn't like it one bit. It was even _more_ embarrassing than having to wear a princess dress.

He was this close to do whatever he could to stop that unsettling stare, like forcing the man to pour him champagne, slapping him in the face, or seizing him by his collar and kissing the crap out of him (look for the odd one out) – but fortunately, someone out there heard his prayers just in time to stop him from doing something stupid, and a man appeared next to them, finally forcing Thranduil to look up.

The newcomer was a stranger – at least, to Fíli, but not to the Elvenking, obviously.

«Bard?»

«Thranduil», the man said. He was less strikingly beautiful than Sexy Bastard, a bit older maybe, but quite hot in his own way, with his long, dark hair, dark eyes, and black cowboy costume. «What the hell are you doing?»

«Just having a conversation», Thranduil smiled. «This young man looked like he was bored, so…»

«Right. Finished now ?»

His tone was as grim as his expression (almost bordering on _cold_ ), and to Fíli's surprise, Thranduil took back the flute he had put on the table and nodded, before turning to Fíli.

«I'm sorry our interesting conversation has to be cut short. See you next time, I hope?»

Completely stunned, Fíli couldn’t think of anything to say, but it didn't matter as Thranduil was already walking away with that Bard bloke, their conversation still clearly audible.

«Don't tell me you were _coming on to a teenager?»_

«What ? Of course I wasn’t. We were just talking. He looked like he needed a bit of distraction.»

«He looked like he wanted to jump you, is what he looked like!»

«Don't be absurd.»

Oh. Dear. Lord.

He wasn't chatting him up. Fíli had imagined all of it. Thranduil _was not chatting him up._

 _Ooooh, I'm such a moron._ Kíli would laugh until the end of times if he knew about it – and he _wouldn't_ , if Fíli had any say in the matter. Face burning with shame, he downed two flutes of champagne in a row, and then a pint of beer for good measure, before shaking his head.

With a bit of luck, he wouldn't remember a thing come next morning.

And if he did… well, he would pretend not to.

God he _hated_ Halloween.


	3. Eleven years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's always hard to be in love, but even more so when the one you can't stop thinking about is your colleague, twenty years older than you, and the father of your two best friends.  
> Yes, Lindir. Life sucks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there ! New chapter. Didn't write any more after this one, which is why I marked it down as complete, but it might not be definitive.  
> English still not native language, very unbeta'd, much mistakes (probably).  
> Thanks a lot for your kudos and comments !

Half an hour had already passed since he'd arrived to the party the Fundinson brothers were throwing, and Lindir kept asking himself a very important question.

_What the hell am I doing here ?_

A few days before, Balin, one of his colleagues in the publishing house he worked for, had invited him when they had met next to the photocopier. Lindir had thought of a lot of reasons he could come up with to justify his refusal – the most important of them all being that his high-school friend Glorfindel had already invited him to his party, and being invited by Glorfindel was a bit like being invited by God himself, or Benedict Cumberbatch – you just couldn't say no. Not to mention Elladan and Elrohir were going too, and those guys fucking knew how to have fun.

He had been about to (politely) voice his hesitations, but just as he was opening his mouth, Mister Elrond had sort of materialised next to him, and suddenly, his mind had gone blank, his thoughts evaporating like cold water on a very hot plate.

Balin, ever the gentleman, had of course invited him too – which had most certainly _nothing_ to do at all with the fact that Elrond was their section chief and a little bit of boot-licking wouldn't hurt.

So _that_ was the reason he was here, uncomfortable in his vampire costume, eyes heavily underlined with kohl, and painfully white fake plastic teeth stuck in his already sore mouth. He was here for Elrond Peredhil, and none other.

Lindir had started to work in the same company as Elrond three years before, after he graduated from university with an utterly useless master's degree in medieval literature – but his obsession with the man went way, way back. During secondary school, actually, and more accurately the day Elladan and Elrohir, four years younger than him, had pushed him in the school courtyard and broken his arm. Lindir had ended up in the hospital, and Elrond had come to visit with his two sons, forcing them to apologise. At that time, Lindir had been so fascinated with their father's beautiful face that he had not heard a word of what the kids were saying.

It didn't long for him to befriend the twins (with absolutely _zero_ ulterior motive whatsoever, of course) and he went to their place whenever possible, if just to catch a glimpse of Elrond.

Plainly put, his love for his two best friends' father had been consuming him for the better part of the past eleven years. Sure, that was a long time to have someone in your head, but it wasn't all that hopeless now, was it ? Elrond was _just_ twenty years older than him and he was widowed. It _could_ happen.

_Of course it couldn't, you big, fat idiot._

He knew perfectly well that Elrond still considered him like the child he had been visiting at the hospital so many years before. Sure, the man respected him, that much was true, respect Lindir had had a hard time earning by constantly stopping Elladan and Elrohir from breaking all hell loose. He even had the cheek to believe Elrond might love him like a son.

And there was the whole problem in a nutshell.

«Lindir!» A enthusiastic voice squealed, and Lindir turned to her owner, little Arwen, ten years old. «I love your costume!»

_Oh._ If Arwen was here, that meant...

«Good evening, Lindir,» said a deep voice next to Arwen. «Nice costume.»

It took Lindir every bit of his self control not to drop the glass of champagne he was holding in his hand (which wasn't his first one and probably wouldn't be his last) and let it shatter on the tiled floor.

«Good evening, Mr Elrond.»

He was gorgeous. Even dressed as he was as a Roman emperor, white toga and red belt, laurel wreath on his dark hair. He looked like he had just stepped out of an art gravure. Lindir downed his glass in one gulp.

«We talked about this, Lindir,» the man said (God he was beautiful), his admirable eyebrows twitching into a frown. «Call me Elrond. I feel like ten years older when you don't and I really don’t need that.»

«Y… Yes Elrond, sir…»

« _Elrond._ Just Elrond.»

«…All right…»

In the meantime, Arwen was playing boa constrictor with his legs, a game she always seemed to enjoy tremendously much to his dismay, until she saw someone in the crowd and stopped abruptly, cheeks burning red. Elrond raised an eyebrow. (An _admirable_ eyebrow.)

«Arwen?»

«Daddy, can I... can I go and play with Aragorn?»

Lindir looked up – true enough, a few feet away, there was standing a handsome fifteen years old boy, laughing with his friends, one painfully blond, and the other spectacularly red-haired. Lindir didn't know them personally, but Elrond had told him about Aragorn, the teenage boy that was in Arwen's fencing class, and about the fact that she had a massive crush on him.

Elrond nodded ( _majestically_ nodded) and Arwen suddenly let go of Lindir's legs to run towards her beloved – leaving the young man alone with _his_ beloved.

«You don't look like you're having much fun,» Elrond said raising his eyebrows in his unique way, a glint of amusement in his eyes.

Lindir shrugged and looked down at his glass, surprised to find it empty. Of course he wasn't having fun. He didn't know one tenth of the guests of the party. Maybe he should have gone to Glorindel's in the end – Elrond wouldn't have been there, but he would have had fun with his friends.

Or would he ? Chances were he would have drunk a lot, and spent the whole evening crying and talking about Elrond to Glorfindel and the twins – who were all very aware of the obsession their friend was nurturing for him, because Lindir talked (and cried) a _lot_ when he was having too much to drink.

Which was the reason he should stop soon tonight if he'd rather keep his secrets to himself – he was already reaching the limits of his lucidity. Right. No more drinking.

«Do you want a glass of champagne?» he asked Elrond. «I was about to get myself another one.»

Shit.

One fantastic eyebrow was lifted higher on a beautiful, intelligent forehead, and Elrond nodded regally, the shadow of a smile at the corners of his lips.

They went to the table with all the alcohol, Lindir doing his best not to stagger, and Elrond nodding slightly in passing to their colleague Thranduil Oropherion, who looked like he was hitting on a blonde boy dressed as Cinderella, much younger than Lindir himself.

_Shit, if only Elrond could go fuck his principles too !_

Disheartened, he knocked back a glass of champagne found on the table before handing one to Elrond and yet another one for himself.

Only fifteen minutes later he already felt like crying, although they were just having a friendly conversation, and he gritted his teeth – now that was it. He had overstepped. He had drunk too much, and God only knew what could happen now.

«Lindir?»

Elrond's kind voice stopped him from losing himself further in his depressing thoughts, and he looked up with a lump in his throat.

«Yes?»

«You're crying,» Elrond said.

He lifted a finger (no, a _beautiful_ finger) and wiped with one knuckle the tear rolling down his cheek, and Lindir went very still. _Oh shit._

«S… Sorry,» he said, all the while feeling a fresh stock of tears building up behind his eyes. «I… I get sad when I drink too much, and I… I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…»

«What's wrong?»

Two tears quickly escaped his eyes, but Lindir still tried his best to smile (not that he was succeeding really, though).

«N… No, no,» he said, his voice breaking every three words or so, «everything's all right, I swear… Everything's good, it's just that… it… makes me sad…»

«What does?»

Oh god, no. If he asked _questions_ , that would be the end of it all. Lindir was already used to spill everything even when no one really wanted to know, but being actually _asked_ was a whole other kettle of fish – there would vanish his tragic little secret.

«D-Don't ask, please, you really don't want to know… since it's about you…»

_Oh shit. Shit. SHIT !!_

The worst of it all was maybe watching the train wreck without being able to do shit about it – like all of his self-control had just vanished and left his feelings in charge of everything (which was never a good thing, he knew that much).

Right. Starting tomorrow, swear to God, he would _never ever_ drink again.

«I believe I already know,» Elrond murmured.

«…What?»

Suddenly, there were lips ( _perfect_ lips) on his, and Lindir's brain shut off. As did his heart. As did his lungs.

All right – surely he was dead and up in heaven, because there just wasn't any other way to explain what was happening. Elrond _could not_ be kissing him. That was just impossible. Wasn't it?

But his lips did feel real enough. And his smell, the fragrance of his house, sweet like a candy, his smell was real too. And his hand, the one that was softly touching his wet cheek – that hand was very much real.

Everything was just _too_ real not to be.

It was a most innocent kiss, just lips grazing lips, but Lindir missed it tremendously when Elrond stepped back.

«B… But…» he said, totally lost. «But I… How did you…?»

«I've known you since you were fourteen,» Elrond said. «I was aware. Not to mention Elladan and Elrohir wouldn't stop telling me about it.»

«O… _Oh god._ I need a drink. Oh dear god.»

He reached out to another glass of champagne, only to be immediately stopped by Elrond's powerful hand, seizing his wrist.

«No more drinking,» he said softly.

«But you _know._ »

«I've known for a while,» Elrond chuckled. «I was somehow certain that it was a teenage crush and that it would fade away as time went by. But it didn't though, did it?»

«No… It really didn't, no…»

«No, it didn't. I realise it every time I see you at work.»

Oh dear lord. He _knew._ Had known for _so long._

Still… That might be his best chance to try something. And the alcohol running instead of the blood in his veins gave him courage. He shouldn't let the occasion pass him up.

_Come Lindir ! Go go go !_

He took a deep breath.

«Listen, Elrond… I know I'm still a child to you, but… I'm twenty-five, now.»

«And I'm forty-five. Twenty years older than you.»

«What of it?» Lindir said a bit more hotly than he intended to. «I don't mind.»

Amazed at his own boldness, he saw himself freeing his wrist from Elrond's grip, and slowly lacing their fingers together.

«I don't mind _one bit._ »

«How can you not mind?» Elrond asked, looking slightly dazed. «I could be your father…»

«You're not.»

Thank God.

«I am your best friends' father.»

«And as you mentioned before, they all know about what I feel for you. Look… I know it's an unusual situation, but… you can't control with whom you fall in love. Is it so improbable, in your eyes?

«…No,» Elrond said after a long silence.

Flabbergasted, Lindir watched as he laced their fingers together more firmly, and the man said : «If we could control with whom we fall in love, I wouldn't even be here tonight. I came for you.»

Oh. _Oh God._ Now there wasn't room for doubt, he definitely had died and gone to heaven. That was the only possible explanation.

«F… For me?»

«Yes.»

Elrond didn't care to elaborate – he only leaned towards Lindir and kissed him for the second time, every bit as softly as the first, and Lindir felt like the entirety of his soul was concentrated in his lips, for a few seconds, before Elrond pulled back again.

«Oh my god», Lindir almost choked. «So you… you… you want to… you don't mind…»

«We can give it a shot,» Elrond said, in a voice so low it was almost inaudible. «If you want.»

« _If I…_? Are you kidding me? I've wanted it since I was fourteen!»

Elrond let out a soft chuckle, and it was Lindir, this time, who leaned up to capture his lips again – for about five short seconds, before Elrond said : «Now how about you take off those fake teeth?» and Lindir quickly did, shoving the plastic dentures deep into the inside pocket of his blood red cloak – and then Elrond was kissing him again.

_Kissing him again._

Scratch everything he had said before about it - this party was _perfect._

 


End file.
